Her fury spilled over. In one violent motion, she drew back her hand and dealt him a ringing slap, hard across the cheek.
Raith reacted immediately to the blow, dropping the reins and roughly grasping her upper arms, his handsome face a dark mask of fury as he jerked her body full against him, his blue eyes flaring darkly.
For the span of a heartbeat, Katrine stared up at him in shock, as the imprint of her fingers appeared an angry red against his dark complexion. She was as startled by her own action as she was fearful of what he might do to her in return. Once more Raith was the fierce Highland laird—proud, scornful, dangerous, as she’d first met him.
“You redheaded spitfire,” he growled in a soft, lethal tone before, in a matching violent motion, his lips came down, hard and hot on hers.
The brutal kiss punished her and possessed her all at once, and Katrine was stunned by the heat of it. His mouth ground ruthlessly against hers, forcing her lips open so he could shove his tongue within, a swift, spearing invasion.
She tried twisting her head, but his hand came up to grip her hair, holding her still, rendering her helpless to avoid his plundering assault. Yet it wasn’t painful. Frightening and thrilling, perhaps. And incredibly pleasurable. Heat and excitement flooded through her as Raith held her, pinned against his hard-muscled frame, the sensation streaking through her body echoing the violence of his devastating kiss.
Raith must have felt it as well, for she heard him groan softly before he abruptly broke off and raised his head to fix her with his stormy, frustrated gaze. Katrine stared at him mutely, her heart pounding so wildly that she was sure he could hear it in the hushed silence that followed. She couldn’t totally read his expression, but she could tell he was struggling with conflicting emotions. And though she had little experience upon which to base a supposition, her instincts were feminine enough to recognize desire in his burning look.
She felt his taut body relax to the slightest degree, as did the tight grip of his fingers. Katrine knew then without a doubt he was going to kiss her again. The anticipation was almost a tangible force between them, vibrating the very air.
“Bonny spitfire,” Raith murmured again on a husky exhalation as his heated gaze fell to her wet, parted lips. Then he filled his lungs with an uneven breath and dipped his dark head again.
He claimed her mouth this time with less anger but more hunger, taking it with a hot drugging urgency that spoke not so much of domination as possession. For a moment her untried tongue remained immobile, while his thrust deep into her mouth, twining in a long, savage, sensuous pattern of withdrawal and penetration, filling her with the taste of him. His tender ravagement stirred an uncontrollable response in her. Quivering, Katrine began returning his kiss, opening her mouth fully beneath his, tentatively offering him her tongue. There was danger there, but all her fear, all her hesitation, all her shyness was swept away in a heated rush of feeling.
As if he sensed what was happening to her, Raith released his hold on her hair and moved his hand down her back, slowly, drawing her even closer, pulling her against his lean, powerful body, fitting her against his unmistakable arousal.
A tender throbbing ache echoed within her, in the very depths of her femininity. Katrine found herself responding mindlessly to his touch, winding her fingers through his ebony hair, clinging to him.
He sucked at her tongue until she whimpered a soft, breathy sound of capitulation. Then the hand that had been gripping her arm slipped between them, gliding over her bodice to close over a swelling breast. His caress was feather-light, but a fierce tightening took hold of every part of her. She shuddered against him, arching her back involuntarily, trying to press closer as her body clamored for his touch. But then his fingers slipped over the low edge of her bodice and closed over her nipple, which was taut and aching. Startled, Katrine suddenly went rigid in his arms.
He could have soothed away her alarm—that was how far gone she was—but her soft gasp jolted Raith to his senses. Forcibly, he tore his mouth away.
“God’s teeth…” he swore raggedly, the sound a harsh plea for control. Shutting his eyes, he drew a labored breath, damning himself with every curse he could think of as he fought for equanimity. It was a measure of his control that he forced himself to release his grip rather than lay Katrine down on a soft bed of bracken and take her then and there, as he wanted to.
Knowing he had to put a safer distance between them, Raith took a small step backward, and then another, though every muscle and nerve in his body cried out against it. The knowledge of what he had almost done was more painful. For a moment he’d gone a little mad with wanting her—her, an enemy Campbell, a hated Sassenach. A captive female who was temporarily under his protection. It was no excuse that she had provoked him beyond reason. No excuse at all. Abruptly Raith turned away, not trusting himself to speak or to remain a moment longer so close to Katrine without touching her or pulling her into his arms again.
Katrine watched with wide questioning eyes as he gathered his horse’s reins. His raw desire had left her shaken, his abrupt withdrawal even more so.
She thought he might say something, if only to swear at her, yet he offered her no apology, no explanation, no curse.
But when he had mounted his horse, he seemed to remember what they had been arguing about, for he threw Katrine a fierce glance. “I won’t warn you again. Keep away from Meggie.” Then, for the second time in the space of an hour, Raith turned the animal and rode away.
Katrine stood there for a long while after he had gone, her thoughts a mass of confusion and swirling emotions. Slowly she raised her fingers to her throbbing lips, remembering the possessiveness of his relentless mouth, the strength of his fierce embrace. Still shaken, she drew a long tremulous breath. She didn’t understand what had happened between them. Not at all.
Why would Raith MacLean kiss her if he hated her?
Chapter Eight
It took Katrine several moments to recover her dazed senses after Raith had gone. Then she stalked back to the house, torn between fury at his high-handedness, embarrassment at the intimacies they’d shared and wonder over his kiss and her own shocking response.
She’d been totally unprepared for the devastating effect of his rough embrace; she simply had no experience to compare with it. The sensations Raith had aroused in her made the fanciful passion she’d envisioned in her romantic dreams pale in comparison.
More unsettling by far was the knowledge that for a score of heartbeats, when she’d been caught up in the incredible feelings of desire and need, she had actually imagined Raith as the man of her fancies. Someone who could match her spirit and fire her blood. Her soul mate.
Katrine flushed. What lunacy had possessed her to compare that savage brute to the soul mate she had dreamed of finding? Defiantly she rubbed her arm where his hard fingers had bitten into her tender skin. No doubt she would be sporting bruises in the morning. Indeed, her conscience was already bruised. The hot color in her cheeks deepened as she recalled the sheer madness of returning Raith’s kisses. She could never face him again.
When she reached the yard, she skirted it warily, keeping an eye out for Raith. Fortunately there was no sign of him. The horses she had noticed before were still tethered in front of the stables, however, which made her remember Raith saying that Callum had returned. It looked as if he had brought company with him.
Katrine wondered who it was, and where Meggie had gone, as she entered the back door to find the kitchen a beehive of activity. The servants were all scurrying around preparing food and drink for the guests.
Flora, her arms wrist-deep in flour, looked up with a harried frown between her brows. “‘Tis about time ye returned.” With an abrupt gesture of her head, the Scotswoman indicated a tray on the table that was laden with several huge pitchers of ale and a decanter of what looked like Scotch whisky—no doubt made from the illegal still, Katrine thought with asperity.
“There,” Flora said, “carry that out
to the mews for the lads. They’ll be wantin’ another wee drap.”
The possibility that Raith was among the company made Katrine dig in her heels. “No!” she replied mutinously. “I won’t do it. You can just find someone else.”
“Please, lass, do as I ask.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Flora lifted the tray and shoved it into Katrine’s hands. “There’s a good lass,” she soothed before returning to her cloutie dumplings.
Staring, Katrine stood rooted in indecision. Flora had never asked her nicely before, or said please. To refuse the simple request would somehow make her into an ungrateful wretch. “Very well,” Katrine muttered, turning with the heavy tray. “But don’t expect me to serve them.”
It was with difficulty that she managed to open the door while balancing the tray and holding up her long skirts at the same time. Leaving the house, Katrine approached the mews with caution. She could hear sounds of masculine revelry coming from the rear of the ground floor, but it was the disturbing prospect of meeting Raith MacLean that set her pulse pounding in an erratic tempo. With trepidation, she made her way down a short corridor and hesitated at an open door, peering within.
The chamber before her was large and apparently served as a gathering place for the Clan MacLean, the way a great hall might have done in decades past. At one end stood a huge stone hearth, while in the center a heavy oaken table dominated much of the stone-flagged floor. It was a men’s room, starkly designed for function rather than comfort, unadorned except for the stags’ heads mounted at intervals between the mullioned windows. There were also vast spaces along the walls that should have been bristling with arms—and would have been, Katrine was sure, if not for the ban on Highlanders possessing weapons.
Some dozen men were sitting on benches around the table, sprawled at their ease, talking and laughing among themselves, not skulking like bandits as they should have been. A few of the men Katrine recognized. Callum was there, as was Lachlan, the dolt who had abducted her. And Ewen, the MacLean whom Raith had dispatched to fetch the lace she had dropped for a trail. And Raith. He sat at the head of the table to her right, giving her a glimpse of his profile. There was no sign of Meggie, not that she’d expected to find the timorous child in a gathering of so many fierce Highlanders.
When she heard the name Campbell mentioned, Katrine strongly suspected they were holding a conference to discuss her. Her attention riveted, she strained to make out what they were saying. Even a scrap of information she might use to her advantage…Then a sudden hush fell over the room as one of the MacLeans spied her.
Katrine scoffed silently to herself. These ruthless brigands were so afraid of having their necks stretched, they wouldn’t let her overhear a word of their discussions. The thought bolstering her courage, she forced herself to step into the lion’s den.
She was aware of Raith watching her as she carried the tray to the table and deposited it at his cousin’s elbow. But though she tried to avoid his gaze, and though she braced herself, the impact of Raith’s vivid blue eyes made her pulse quicken. Which was absurd, given the fact that he was surveying her with practiced detachment, and that the familiar stony look had settled over his features.
Unaccountably, his dark stare depressed her. His disdain for her obviously hadn’t altered one whit, even if he had just kissed her half-senseless only a short while ago. Callum, on the other hand, gave her a lopsided, welcoming smile.
“Ah, bonny Katie! Faith, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
His slow, cheerful greeting took her aback. Only her father had ever called her “bonny Katie,” and it was too personal a diminutive for this charming scoundrel to use so blithely. Moreover, Callum’s Scottish burr was more pronounced than usual, making it rather obvious that he’d consumed more spirits than was good for him.
“You’re foxed,” she retorted, but her disapproval seemed to have no effect on him. His disarming grin only widened as he tried to wrap an arm around her waist. Startled, Katrine jumped back, glaring down at him. Callum winked up at her in return.
Katrine had meant to leave at once, but perversely she decided to stay, knowing that as long as she remained, it would prevent the MacLeans from discussing her fate. Squaring her shoulders, she began filling empty tankards with ale.
When she reached Callum again, though, he took the pitcher from her and poured his own ale. Glancing at his clan, he raised his pewter tankard. “Here’s to a successful haul, lads.”
The knot of men responded slowly, casting wary looks at Katrine as they raised their mugs. She gazed back at them in puzzlement, wondering what Callum’s toast referred to. She was still seething enough from her recent encounter with his cousin to ask. “What do you mean, ‘a successful haul’? What kind of unlawful activities are you and your confederates engaged in this time?”
“Katie, you wound me,” Callum said, shaking his head. “Next you’ll accuse us of being free traders.”
“Free traders! You’re engaged in smuggling?”
Raith’s dry voice cut in abruptly. “I suggest, cousin, that you take care in what you divulge to Miss Campbell. She’s already threatened to report us to the English revenuers.”
“Ah, Katie, ye wouldn’t turn us in, would ye?”
“Why would you doubt it?” Raith replied for her. “It would merely be one more instance of Campbells betraying their true countrymen.”
Katrine’s spine went rigid. It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that yes, she most certainly would turn the MacLeans in the first chance that arose, not for smuggling contraband, but for abducting her. But she thought better of making such an admission in this hostile company.
Her expression must have betrayed her sentiments, however, for Callum sorrowfully shook his head. “Alas, Katie, you just missed your opportunity. The Sassenach soldiers left a short while ago.”
The English soldiers were here? A short while ago? Katrine’s gaze flew to Raith’s. “Were they…looking for me?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Raith answered her coolly. “What else would they be seeking, Miss Campbell?”
Katrine stared at him in dismay, realizing how close she had been to rescue. And Raith had known all along, she realized as well, searching his dark eyes. All the time he had been upbraiding her for endangering Meggie, he’d been well pleased his Campbell captive was conveniently out of sight.
“The soldiers were very polite, of course, when they invaded my home,” Raith added mockingly, “but they took great pleasure in conducting a thorough search of the estate. I took equal pleasure when they could find no trace of you.”
Was that why he had sought her out—to prevent her from returning to the house before the soldiers left? Was that why he had kissed her so fiercely—merely to delay her return? The knowledge that he’d used her so callously pained Katrine more than she thought possible. And whipped up her anger as well. She wanted to tell Raith just how despicable she thought such actions, but she couldn’t find the words a well-bred lady would utter. Determinedly she clamped her lips together.
She could tell, however, that Raith was quite aware of her struggle. His knowing expression further roused her sense of impotence, and she gave him a scorching look, her eyes sparking with rancor.
He had the audacity to look amused.
Katrine stalked back to the tray and snatched up a fresh pitcher, nearly spilling it on Lachlan. When the stocky, redheaded man flinched, she gave him an innocent smile that was patently false and moved around the table, filling glasses.
Someone else proposed a toast, then: “When we’re gaun up the hill o’ fortune may we ne’er meet a friend comin’ doon!”
Tankards were lifted in unison and the toast drunk, before another MacLean chimed in, “Here’s ta more friends an’ less need o’ them!”
The salutations came thick and fast after that, and Katrine was hard-pressed to find a tankard that was still enough to be filled.
“Blithe may we always be,” another man volunteered, “Ill may
we never see.”
Ill may you always see, Katrine amended silently as she retrieved the last pitcher. She had just reached Raith when Ewen rose to his feet and solemnly lifted his mug. “To James Francis Edward, the true king over the water.”
“The true king?” Katrine muttered under her breath, irked that these Highlanders persisted in ignoring the fact that King James II, father of the James Francis Edward Stuart whom the MacLeans were toasting, had been deposed in favor of a Protestant more than seventy years ago. “The Old Pretender is what you mean.”
She realized at once it was a witless thing to say. She could hear the shocked intake of breath all around the table, while the MacLeans who had started to rise froze halfway out of their seats.
The elderly man on her right whose tankard she was filling gave her a fearsome scowl that chilled her blood. Unnerved, Katrine took a step away, unconsciously seeking protection from Raith on her left. But she never reached him. Instead, she stepped on the hem of her skirt and tripped, barely catching herself on the table’s edge. The pitcher fell from her hands, spilling its contents across the table in a flood, drenching a grizzled old fellow who she thought might be the shepherd who’d threatened her two days before.
“Dhe!” the old man roared, leaping to his feet.
Katrine barely had time to register the Gaelic curse before he pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it directly at her. At the same instant, she felt hard fingers gripping her skirt and suddenly found herself being wrenched into Raith’s arms.
The explosion that shattered the room was deafening. Katrine lay sprawled awkwardly across Raith’s lap, stunned by the sudden turn of events, while Raith thundered in Gaelic at the man.
Trying to catch her breath, Katrine lifted her shocked gaze to the smoking pistol in the old man’s gnarled hand. Chalky paleness seeped into her cheeks at the sight. He had come within an ace of blowing her head off.
Her gaze rose another degree. The old man was glaring hatred at her, his gray beard quivering with rage, despite Raith’s tirade. Then, with another curse and a sullen look, the shepherd turned and stalked from the room.
TENDER FEUD Page 14
